Dawn Thompson (19 page)

“I shan’t deceive you: I am just as vulnerable to vampires in my state as you are in yours—or as you will be once you embrace the Blood Moon Rite. It is a deadly dance we hunters perform, like moths to the flame in our quest. Make no mistake, there is
always
danger of being set upon and drained to death. One must hone one’s skills. But that lesson is still to come and there is no time to teach it now, so take no chances in my absence and let no one cross that threshold—no one but me. The undead come in many forms, Jon Hyde-White. Trust no one here now, least of all your own judgment.”

Then the Gypsy settled down to wait for them to feed.

An hour later, Milosh was gone, and Jon and Cassandra were alone in the sparsely furnished cottage. A chair, a table, and a straw pallet were grouped around a crumbling hearth filled with fallen bricks and debris. Outside, soft rain was leaking through the trees. The only sound was the music of raindrops landing with hollow splats and trickling down what remained of the chimney.

Cassandra was exhausted. She hadn’t slept in so long that she’d forgotten when last she’d closed her eyes. Now was when she needed to sleep, so that they could be abroad during the day, while Sebastian and his minions were driven to their resting places, but there were just too many things that needed to be addressed. Seated on the edge of the pallet, hugging her knees for balance, she studied Jon, who was pacing the distance before the all-but-collapsed hearth. Milosh had left them the cart lantern and tinderbox—resting on the tabletop alongside the flask of holy water Jon had replenished from the stream outside, it cast his tall shadow about the walls, where a tracery of vines creeping in between the gaps in the old boards had fortified the wood and all but covered them. Damp ivy, woodbine, and honeysuckle mingled with the heady scent of pine perfuming the rain-washed air. In any other circumstance this would have been conducive to sleep, but not tonight.

“What exactly does he mean about the blood moon?” she asked, having decided to begin with that.

“I do not know,” Jon replied. “There hasn’t been time to discuss it.”

“He must have told you something.”

“Only that there is some sort of rite that must be performed at the rising of the blood moon that will help
us . . . that will make us as he is. We would no longer be slaves to the bloodlust. Though we cannot be cured, the ritual would free us to the extent that we could hunt down and destroy these creatures. He has yet to divulge the particulars.”

Cassandra gave things some thought. Why would he not look at her? His eyes, shining like mercury in the lanternlight, stared into the vacant hearth. What rage drove him? He was gritting his teeth. It gave a jutting set to his jaw, where the muscles had begun to tick in a steady rhythm. How handsome he was, even in anger. She longed to reach out and touch him—only that, just a gentle touch to soothe whatever it was that gripped him. But while her fingers ached to do just that, she laced them together and hugged her knees harder instead.

“You are angry with me,” she said, low-voiced, avoiding those mercurial eyes. Out of the corner of her own she saw his head flash toward her.

“How could you think it?” he murmured.

“I can see it in your eyes. I have displeased you. If I hadn’t run out after that chicken—”

“You think . . . ?” He heaved a sigh. “I am not angry with you. I am angry that the feeding frenzy commands us. We are not ourselves when it comes upon us; not our real selves. You cannot be faulted for what is not in your power to control. This . . . insanity is for me to resolve, and I am trying to find a way to do that. I do not dare leave you alone, and I do not dare be alone with you. The sight of you, the
smell
of you—your very essence is driving me mad, Cassandra. It is with me,
in
me—the softness of your skin, the sweetness of your scent. I cannot take a breath without inhaling you, whether you are near or far. I ache for you and cannot take you. It does not matter
that I have just fed; when I touch you, the bloodlust comes upon me. I cannot trust myself to hold you in my arms, to make love to you. . . .” He let loose a bitter laugh, raking his hair back ruthlessly. “
Angry
with you? Hah! If it were only that simple!”

Cassandra surged to her feet and started toward him.

“No!” he cried, sidestepping her advance. “Come no nearer! My God, haven’t you heard me?”

“I heard
him,
Jon,” she said, stopping in her tracks and giving up all pretense. “Milosh. I heard every word. Do you not hear and see and know what goes on around you when you shapeshift? He said that you should finish what Sebastian started—that I would become no worse than you now are. I do not see why, if I am willing—”

“No!” he thundered. “If you heard that, you also heard something else. I cannot be distracted now. We cannot be at cross purposes here or we are lost, Cassandra. We must do what we came here to do, learn what we came here to learn so that we will be able to help others who are infected, and we must run to ground and destroy the creatures who threaten us. You must help me, and to do so you must keep your distance. Come . . . no . . . nearer. . . .”

“What are you saying?” she sobbed. “Will you never touch me again, never consummate our marriage? Will I never feel your arms around me? Your kiss? Speak to me, Jon. What is to become of
us
in all this? You cannot mean you will never make love to me. That is madness! What of the family we planned before all this began? Is there no hope of that now? Can we talk about it at least?”

“Not now,” he said. “I cannot make love to you—not as long as it will put you in danger. Perhaps after the blood moon, after I have destroyed Sebastian . . . I-I do not know. I do not know anything except that I cannot
embrace you now. I dare not, and if you love me, you will not tempt me. I will not have you on my conscience any more than I have already.”

Tears blurred his image. “If I thought you meant to put me from you after we wed, after we have lain naked together, after you awakened me to pleasures I didn’t even know existed, only to leave me unfulfilled with no hope for a future—I would let that creature finish me. I cannot live without you, Jon, not now,
not ever.
”

She could not meet his anguished stare. They were within arm’s distance of an embrace. He was clearly fighting an instinct to seize her. His hands were fisted and white-knuckled at his sides. His scent drifted past her nostrils: salty, clean, of the earth; laced with musk, with leather and lime and his own male essence; evocative, intoxicating. It aroused her. He was aroused, too. He made no move to hide it—or the fangs that had begun to descend, distorting the shape of his sensuous mouth. He was about to take her in his arms—would have done, she was certain, and she would have let him—if a knock at the door of the cottage hadn’t turned them both toward it with a lurch.

It was a slow, steady knock, low down on the door, unceasing and methodical, as if delivered to the tick of a metronome. The hollow sound sent shivers racing along Cassandra’s spine and raised the short hairs on the back of her neck. This was not Milosh’s hand rapping so solemnly.

“Help! Help me! Let me in. . . .” It was the desperate voice of a child. The mere thought of a child abroad in the forest in the rain with the undead about set Cassandra in motion, and she bolted forward.

Jon did reach out then and seized her arm, jerking her to a standstill. He shook his head slowly, a finger over his
lips, and whispered, “No! It is a trick. Hear how it knocks? It is undead!”

“It is a
child
,” she whispered, resisting. “Can you not hear its voice?”

“Our foe makes no distinction between man, woman, or child, Cassandra. Let that creature in and you let in a vampire.”

Again the knock came, and Cassandra tried to pry Jon’s fingers from her arm to no avail. “What if you are wrong?” she argued.

“If I am wrong,” he said, “then we do it no favors welcoming it here! Have you forgotten what
we
are? Either way, we cannot let it in!”

“Let . . . me . . .
in
. . .” the child’s voice echoed, begging between sobs.

“Is there no way to be certain?” Cassandra pleaded.

Jon hesitated. “Do not touch that door,” he warned before letting her go. Snatching the flask of holy water from the table, he tiptoed to the door and waited. The knock came again, and he jerked the door open a crack and flung some of the water in the face of what appeared to be a small girl, whose mournful wails quickly became shrill cries of pain. Steam rose everywhere the holy water touched her, and the child flashed fangs, her eyes glowing red, and recoiled from the threshold hissing and spitting like a viper.

Jon slammed the door, but not before Cassandra glimpsed other shapes moving doggedly among the trees—and something else. She gasped, and the sound caught in her throat. The child who knocked had disappeared! Was she a vampire glamour? Jon threw the bolt and leaned against the door only to vault away from it, for other knocks vibrated the wood. Cassandra reeled
back and fell upon the pallet, her head in her hands. The knocks were no longer limited to the door. The cottage was surrounded.

“Now do you see?” Jon asked.

“What are we going to do?” she sobbed.

“There is nothing we can do,” Jon said, “but wait it out. They cannot enter without an invitation.”

“But the walls are shaking!” she cried.

“Shhhh, be still!” he cautioned. “These are Sebastian’s minions. We have not escaped him. Milosh was right: He toys with us as a cat toys with a mouse. Do not let them hear you. They have sharp senses just as we do. Keep your voice down and try to stay calm. They will smell your fear. Milosh should be returning soon. He is accustomed to such as this. Ye gods, I believe he expected it! Why do you suppose he warned us not to let anyone in? I only wish there was some way I could warn him . . .”

Jon blew out the lantern, sat down beside her, and took her in his arms. His body was as rigid as stone. He had steeled himself against the lure of her closeness and was clearly struggling with it in a bold attempt to comfort her. But she needed that closeness; she was struggling with her own demons. She was
like
them, these creatures in the wood. Albeit to a lesser degree, she was nonetheless as they were, driven by the same cravings, the same insatiable bloodlust. The distended vein in Jon’s throat was so close. She nestled her head against it—against the pulsating rhythm of his blood thrumming against her skin, listening to his life force. She could smell the blood in him. It was in
her
, and when aroused it rose to the surface, calling her, overwhelming her, tormenting her, demanding consummation. It was calling to her now, igniting the fever, making her heart race. Her budding fangs descended.
They were longer now than they had been in the past, long enough to feed. A surge of adrenaline all but crippled her. She ran her tongue across their hollow-pointed tips. No, she wasn’t imagining it. Her condition was worsening.

All at once Jon’s posture clenched. Did he know? Did he feel it, too—her danger? He must. How could he not?

He eased her back on the pallet and surged to his feet. Stripping off his greatcoat, he spread it over her. His hands were trembling as he tucked it close about her neck, and she snuggled into the superfine fabric. It was warm from his body heat, infused with his scent. She drank that in deeply, a soft moan escaping her throat as she burrowed down into a fetal position and pulled it closer still.

“Try to sleep,” he murmured, pacing like a caged lion. “I need to think, and you are a colossal distraction that I can ill afford if I am to get us out of this nightmare.”

“Don’t leave me, Jon,” she murmured, not knowing why she said it. She knew he never would. Not deliberately. Her fear was that in his fervor to destroy vampires he might inadvertently do something cavalier that would separate them.

He stopped pacing. She could barely see in the darkness, even with her enhanced vision, for the moon hidden behind the dense cloud cover spared no reflected light to filter in between the cracks in the boards, but she clearly heard his footfalls cease extracting painful groans from the ancient floorboards.

“What foolishness,” he said. “How could such a thought even enter your mind?”

Her bitter laughter replied. There were tears in the sound, but none physically spilled. She was beyond tears now.

“I need to
think
,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard or extracted the meaning from that wordless reply. “If it weren’t for worry over what would happen to you if I failed, I would go out there and make an attempt to put an end to that lot straightaway. Sebastian must have minions everywhere. The trouble is, we are still what we always were, Cassandra, we’re . . . well, never mind. I’m thinking out loud. Pay no attention to me or to that out there. Go to sleep. All will pass with the dawn. There will be much to do then, and between the lethargy that the sunrise brings and the sheer exhaustion of not having slept, you will not be up to it.”

Outside the knocking came and went in waves. Cassandra didn’t fear it any longer. She was safe, cocooned in Jon’s warm coat, wrapped in a cloud of his scent. Somehow, she slept.

“I thought I would go mad for want of doing something—anything,” Jon said. “I couldn’t unless I left her alone. Nothing has changed. It is just as it has been from the start, when I elected to bring her with me. What else could I do to protect her, to ensure her safety? I could not leave her, could not abandon her to God alone knows what. How could my conscience have borne it? And so I brought her, and still I cannot leave her alone, for fear . . . You are absolutely certain you saw nothing, no one in the forest?”

“No—no one,” Milosh said. He had returned. The two men were seated at the table, speaking softly for fear of waking Cassandra. It was a small room, and voices carried—especially agitated ones. “But this does not surprise me,” the Gypsy went on. “It was a show of force. Sebastian mocks you. He tells you that you have not hurt him with the piddling few servants you destroyed at the castle. He has many, many more at his disposal, from all walks of life and of every age. It was a shock, no doubt—seeing
this child—but it is a grim reality. Now you know why I told you to admit no one, Jon Hyde-White.”